


i yelled back (when i heard the thunder)

by seaqueen



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 2016 Stanley Cup Playoffs, Coming Out, Group Sex, M/M, Marriage, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2017-06-22
Packaged: 2018-11-17 10:43:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11273838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seaqueen/pseuds/seaqueen
Summary: He’s pretty sure that’s a smirk lurking tucked in the corner of Backstrom’s lips. They’re getting played here, and Sidney just hasn’t figured out quite how yet, but he knows it’s there. “I’m here on behalf of my husband. We did just lose, after all.” He looks hunted at that reminder for a moment; hungry and wanting for something that slipped through his fingers.There’s a beat where no one moves, and Sid’s not really sure if anyone’s even breathing. He’s not sure ifhe’sbreathing.“You’ve got to be shitting me.” Kessel says in disbelief.





	i yelled back (when i heard the thunder)

**Author's Note:**

> for [this prompt](https://thesinbin.dreamwidth.org/3790.html?thread=4821454#cmt4821454) over at the sinbin.
> 
> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, if you got here by googling yourself or someone you know you should probably hit the back button! Also I have no idea if Nicky speaks Russian or not and can't find evidence either way after he played for Dynamo so.... artistic license?
> 
> Title comes from One Last Breath by Creed. Beta'd by Andy, despite their protests and not actually having any idea of who these people are, and having to suffer through being yelled at 24/7 about the Washington Capitals while knowing nothing about hockey (you're my favorite goblin <3 )

The press is gone by now, and the normal locker room conversation is a dull roar in Sidney’s ears. They’re through the second round and bound for the Conference championships; and it’s a relief. Any series, any _game_ against the Capitals is always a brutal one; and despite only going to six games this series has been no exception to that. He always enjoys it, because playing against a fierce rival like the Caps is always beautiful hockey. Especially when they _win_. Sid’s not paying any particular attention to anyone around him or their conversations, lost in his own train of thought as he turns over the game while it’s still fresh in his mind already thinking ahead to playing the Lightning in a few days.  
  
A few of the guys have started to trickle out, mostly the married guys with younger children who don’t feel like sticking around for the spoils of their victory; but that’s typical. The bulk of the team hasn’t gone anywhere and is settled in stripped down to their minimums, lounging with all the loose limbed grace of confidence of men who’d just sewn up the series.  
  
The media’ll be done with the Caps soon, and they’re all just waiting for Ovechkin to get his shit together and send his girl over, the way he’s supposed to. Sid half expects him to put his back up about it and refuse, has already had a hushed conversation with Geno about just that. But he’d like to think the best of his fellow captain.   
  
No one hears the measured footsteps in the hall over the sound of conversation, but when the door creaks there’s a ripple of turning heads towards it in anticipation – no one’s really sure who’s about to walk into the room to fulfill the agreement, not when Ovechkin’s been linked to such a variety of women with nothing more concrete than speculation and rumor.  
  
When the door swings open, it’s Nicklas Backstrom standing silhouetted by the fluorescent hallway lights.  
  
He’s wearing an extremely disgruntled face and looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here – but there’s a glint of mischief in those green eyes. “Ovechkin send you to weasel out for him?” A voice jeers from somewhere behind Sidney, and he absentmindedly identifies it as Duper with what little attention isn’t focused on the Swede staring them down. Backstrom doesn’t answer or acknowledge the taunt, stepping inside the locker room and closing the door behind him. There’s a defiant tilt to his chin, and Sidney trades a glance with Geno; gratified to see his friend looks as confused as he is by the situation at hand.  
  
He’s in his suit, Sid’s bemused to see, blonde hair curling at the ends where it brushes his collar still wet at the tips from where he’s clearly showered. In a room full of the still riotous mess of sweaty Penguins scattered around the oval of their locker room, it stands out. It stands very, very out.   
  
The Capitals’s player hands go for the knot of the tie, loosening it until it hangs open at his throat. Steady, elegant fingers start at the top button and begins to slip them one by one with nearly mathematical precision to slowly expose the lines of his chest, and a solid looking gold chain with a ring on it hanging from his neck.  
  
There’s a general sort of dumbfounded confusion hanging in the air as they watch him, no one really sure what to make of what’s going on.  
  
Somewhere a piece is missing from this puzzle, Sid thinks idly, as he admires the strong curve of Backstrom’s collarbone. The Swede folds each item of clothing as he peels it off his body, placed neatly in a pile at his feet, and his pads do not do him justice at all in the rear as Sid's eyes linger on the swell of Backstrom's ass when he turns.  
  
Sid's an ass man. He feels justified making that observation.  
  
Backstrom’s down to a pair of black spandex now and still hasn’t said anything, and Sid’s starting to get suspicious that this is going farther than just a joke by the Capitals. Backstrom’s got that same steely eyed determination he gets just before he dumps the puck to Ovechkin in an impossible pass for a goal. “Backstrom what the fuck.” Flower finally bursts out from his long limbed sprawl on the end, bare feet hitting the ground with a soft thwack as he swings himself upright.

There’s a challenge in those green eyes, as if he’s daring them; but Sid can’t even begin to guess at what. Backstrom reaches up to tangle his fingers in the length of the chain at his neck and involuntarily the Canadian’s gaze is drawn to the simple gold band hanging from it – the first inklings of suspicion gather in the back of his mind. But the hazy picture forming is absurd he tells himself, though it’s hard to argue with a nearly naked Nicklas Backstrom standing in the middle of the Penguins locker room after a Capitals series loss.

One side of the Swede’s mouth turns up.

He’s pretty sure that’s a smirk lurking tucked in the corner of Backstrom’s lips. They’re getting played here, and Sidney just hasn’t figured out quite _how_ yet, but he knows it’s there. “I’m here on behalf of my husband. We did just lose, after all.” He looks hunted at that reminder for a moment; hungry and wanting for something that slipped through his fingers.

There’s a beat where no one moves, and Sid’s not really sure if anyone’s even breathing. He’s not sure if  _he’s_  breathing.

“You’ve got to be shitting me.” Kessel says in disbelief.

Backstrom – Nicky, he’s Nicky now it seems ridiculous to call him by his surname given the reason he’s in their locker room – folds himself gracefully to the ground on his knees in front of Bones. There’s a hitch when he bends his hip; a stiffness from old injury compounded with Geno driving him into the boards during the third period and in retrospect Sid can’t believe he didn’t see this coming sooner.

Nicky’d still been picking himself up and shaking off that hit when Ovechkin had come soaring out of nowhere to slam into Geno and attempt to pile drive him into the boards himself – that kind of protectiveness went far beyond a captain and his A, beyond linemates even. And with a little perspective to put it all in context, well. Now he can see so many other incidents cast in an entirely different light.

Ovechkin had ended up in the box with a double minor for that, thundercloud lurking beneath his skin crackling with energy.

Geno looks as poleaxed as Sid feels from his seat a few stalls down, and he can nearly see the wheels turning in the Russian’s head to fit this new piece of information against a man he’s known most of his life. “Lockout. Yes? You and Sasha in Moscow for Dynamo.” He says finally, gaze heavy where it rests on Nicky. The Swede smiles. “A start, of a sort.” He answers without actually answering.

Sid’s still a little lost, brain struggling to catch up with the new pieces of information and fit them in his world view – Alexander Ovechkin; left winger, captain, top goal scorer. Married to his center. It fits better than it has any right to and Sid doesn’t particularly know how to feel about that. Ovechkin’s romantic pursuits should never be anywhere near his thought processes if Sid has anything to say about it.

The sound of Bones’s choked off noise snaps that line of thought abruptly; and the attention falls on where Nicky’s left a sharp nip on the inside of the other center’s thigh as he eases the elastic of the sweatpants the rest of way over muscular thighs and shoves them ungracefully down his calves. Quick hands, Nicklas Backstrom, Sid thinks with a sort of bemused internal snicker.

The tips of his fingers bite deep into the skin and leave crescents of white. He licks a broad stripe with the flat of his tongue from root to tip, flicking at the most sensitive spots beneath the head and Bones nearly comes off the bench at the barest graze of teeth that Sid sees only as a brief flash of white against red lips. It’s ironic somehow, that Backstrom’s here ostensibly as a sacrifice to the victorious Penguins triumph over the Capitals but yet it’s hard to deny that he’s the one running the show.

He sees it, in that moment, in the proud curve of Nicky’s neck as he leans back and spreads hockey calloused hands over the bruised muscles of Bones’s thighs. He sees how Backstrom and Ovechkin fit together – they’re flip sides of a coin true enough but they’re made of the same stuff. It’s easy to be subsumed in the chaos that is Alexander Ovechkin but Nicklas Backstrom is a man who lets no one decide his fate but himself.

Even here, on his knees, in a hated rival’s locker room to satisfy them. Sid would bet good money that Ovechkin had argued vociferously against Nicky coming here after the game to fulfill the terms of the sacrifice and that it had been Nicky himself who’d done it anyway. Whether to prove something or for some other reason Sid can’t begin to guess he doesn’t know; but it’s all too easy to see a man who could hold the love of Alex Ovechkin and give it in equal turn.

It’s Flower, surprisingly, who strips Nicky out of the last vestiges of clothing and exposes the Swede in all his bare glory. The goalie eels forward unnoticed until he’s pulling Nicky up from the ground and his knees, getting nimble fingers on the elastic of the spandex and peeling it away from his skin. They drop to pool around Nicky’s ankles, and he skims his hands along the well muscled lines of Nicky’s ribs.

A shiver runs across his skin, Nicky tipping his head back instinctively. Flower grins – and that grin right there, the one edged in devilish delight that he gets right before he delivers a perfectly timed chirp or pulls a well-executed prank over on someone, makes Sid wince in memory – and then leans down to sink his teeth into the curve of the center’s neck.

It’s not a perfect vantage point for Sid, so he can’t quite see what his goalie’s up to, but by the time he pulls away it’s clear that the spot’s going to bruise darkly and Nicky’s going to carry that mark for longer than the Capital had probably anticipated. It’s low enough that it likely won’t be exposed in a normal shirt though, because Flower knows better all joking aside.

There’s a glazed look in Nicky’s eyes though. A rather suspicious one, that says he _liked_ that and that is more information about Ovechkin’s sex life than Sidney just about ever needed thank you.

“Hey Geno.” Flower calls, still stroking the musculature of Nicky’s torso in what looks like maddeningly teasing brushes of bare fingertips in a seemingly random pattern. The infamously cool headed Backstrom isn’t outwardly reacting – but that glazed look has been replaced by one that’s starting to get a little desperate around the edges. Good, Sid thinks viciously, irrationally pleased by that. “What do you think?”

The Russian in question hums non-committal, spreads long legs wider and then Flower puts a hand between Nicky’s shoulder blades and shoves hard enough to catch him off balance and stumbling a few steps in Geno’s direction instead of standing in the center of the room.

Green eyes are startled – no one ever suspects Flower, which has never made sense to Sid in the least because it’s _Flower_ – and snap up to the now smirking Russian who snakes out an arm to grab a naked Nicky by the wrist and reel him in.

Broad hands push on his shoulders until Nicky gives in and drops to his knees, and is manhandled more or less willingly until he’s draped over the bench and Geno’s trailing curious fingertips over the ridges of his spine. Until he dips those same fingers between the swell of Nicky’s ass.

Geno makes a startled noise, drawing his hand away. His fingers glisten in the fluorescent lights of the locker room with slick and there’s a laughing smirk hidden in the lines of Nicky’s face. “Alex did not particularly trust that you would be thorough enough to satisfy him.” The Swede says in a deceptively flat voice, one eyebrow arched as his gaze flits through the room without settling on any particular player; still imperious even currently draped over a bench completely naked. The look on Geno’s face startles a laugh out of Sid, caught somewhere between arousal and disgruntlement.

The Russian settles for a strong hand between Nicky’s shoulder blades to shove ungracefully at him and bend him back down against the bench instead of facing the room. The Capitals player goes easily enough but his soft chuckle is cut short as Geno unexpectedly takes advantage of his countryman’s preparation to slide two blunt fingers into Nicky in one swift motion.

The sound that emerges is punched out of Nicky, and Sid isn’t sure where to look at the soft whine that escapes the Swede when Geno adds a third and _twists_ –

He makes Backstrom put on a show, because he knows just how very much it is not when the Swede wants. But Geno’s crafty, and he’s an asshole when he chooses to be. No one’s really surprised. He’s got Nicky spread out on the bench, all of that Scandinavian pale skin exposed and there for all of them to see. To watch as Geno takes him apart piece by piece at his own pace without care for the increasingly desperate sounds being pulled out of the other center.

Geno’s relentless. It’s not a quality he leaves on the ice, and it’s on full display now as he works Nicky over without a care or notice for the cries he’s pulling out with each thrust of talented hands. If anything, they spur him on and those cries increase in pitch as Nicky writhes beneath the iron strength of the hand holding him down.

Every muscle in Backstrom’s body goes taut at once – then tension flows out of him like the trickle of water until he’s collapsed boneless against the bench, but Geno doesn’t give him a moment to catch his breath from climax. The Russian shifts until he’s straddling the bench between Nicky’s thighs, leans forwards and pauses only long enough to push his own sweats down below his hips and get caught on his thighs.

Nicky’s hips are hitching now, trying in vain to escape the overstimulation where Geno still works him over; until he finally gives into the inevitable and comes striping the smaller man’s back like a Jackson Pollock painting and a self-satisfied groan. Geno slumps back to rest against the stalls, but his hand brushes across Nicky’s flank in what looks like a caress because Geno might be an asshole but he’s also an affectionate one; and it doesn’t really surprise anyone to see it here.

Nicky, on the other hand, rolls off the bench and to his feet with the boneless grace of a man with nothing to lose. And that icy gaze fixates on Sidney, before he prowls the few feet that separate them. “Captain.” He drawls, and the word is as much a challenge as it is a title; but there’s not all that much respect in it either.

There's a fire burning somewhere behind his eyes, banked embers roaring to life unrepentant and the only singular thought in the captain's mind is to get this man beneath him and to sink into that tight heat and _claim_ him. And Sidney Crosby is honest enough with himself to admit it’s driven in large part by the visceral satisfaction of taking something that belongs to his rival.

Nicky is Ovechkin’s, but right now in this moment he’s Sidney’s and that is nearly as satisfying as the series win.

Nearly.

It’s probably the original point of the sacrifice, to force captains to give up something so precious to them. To watch and dig the barb that much deeper from a loss; a holdover from far crueler days. Old tradition or not; it doesn’t make it hurt any less. Nicky is pure coiled lethality, metal wound tight under tension as he swings a knee over Sid’s hips and settles in his lap.

He smiles a wolf’s smile, all sharp teeth and predator’s eyes, before he sinks down with a flex of powerful thighs and Sid’s buried to the hilt in immolate heat. Sid’s head hits the back of his stall with an audible thump.

Hands tighten around Nicky’s hips hard enough that it’s likely going to bruise, the shape of Sidney’s hands imprinted on his skin even after he leaves this locker room and Sid thinks – _good_. Because he’s enough of an asshole to be pleased at the idea of Ovechkin looking at the marks left behind and remembering he’s not getting the Cup this year, that it’d be the Penguins who took it away from them; and that even if for one brief moment Sidney had just one more thing that Ovechkin loved in his grasp.

Nicky, the bastard, doesn’t move. He’s not even trembling under Sidney’s hands, as bladed sharp as he is on the ice even when his mouth drops open in a soft _oh_ of pleasure. The Penguins captain chooses to put in an attempt to wrest control back. The Swede has two hands braced on his shoulders, and Sid snaps his hips up sharply without releasing the iron grip he’s got on those powerful thighs; hard enough that the noise that escapes the other is closer to a breathy groan than anything else.

Backstrom digs the blunt tips of his fingertips into where he’s got a grip on Sidney’s shoulders, pressing his own impressions against the solid muscle as if he can hold onto the threads of control slipping out between his fingers. Sid’s not having any of it. This is _his_ locker room, _his_ series win and the clash of thighs against hips is as volcanic as titans across a battlefield, scrambling for dominance.

Nicky’s a solid weight, and it’s easy to forget sometimes just how large and solid he is – he outweighs Sid by about a dozen pounds. But he gives in to the pace Sid sets after a moment, and as a result that pace is _brutal_.

He’s surprisingly loud, for such a soft spoken man who eschews the spotlight in every form. Not in words, but every motion and every gesture pulls a wordless exhalation from him. It’s impossibly arousing. Nicky’s cock is caught between their bodies and slides along the firm muscle of Sid’s chest until the captain takes him in hand.

It draws a shout from him, still sensitive from Geno’s ministrations even as he hardens in Sid’s grip and stutters in the punishing slam of his hips. But Sid’s as relentless as his best friend – there’s a reason, they work so well together – and gives Nicky no quarter until the Swede comes across his own chest with a shuddering sob. Sid thrusts again, once; twice, before the slick tight heat does him in and he empties himself inside the blond.

Nicky slumps bonelessly, his weight heavy where he’s still balanced across Sid’s thighs; and for a moment he debates simply dumping the Swede to the ground unceremoniously. But his upbringing wins out over competitive disdain; and he manhandles Nicky for a moment just long enough to sit him on the bench.

He’s a mess, frankly.

Sid allows himself a moment of smugness, as the moment stretches languid and syrup thick settling across the locker room. Nicky’s got his eyes closed, head leaning back against the stall he’s in front of; blond hair in a tangled riotous mess and swollen red lips. Green eyes slit open at the halfhearted throat clear from the room’s lone Russian, slant a questioning gaze Geno’s direction.

 “You and Sasha. Married?” Backstrom very nearly sighs, shifting slightly on the bench and only the tiny lines of tension at the corners of his eyes giving away the discomfort the motion caused.

“Not legally. But in every way that matters, to us.” He confirms in a soft voice, and seemingly instinctively reaches up to touch the chain and ring at his throat. _Russia._ He doesn’t say, but he doesn’t have to, and the grim look in Geno’s eyes confirms he hears it anyway. The room lapses into silence again.

The door swings open and they’re all startled by the sudden motion and the shattering of the quiet after the languorous sloth of a moment before.

“Enough time little _pingviny_ , you give back my Nicky now.” Ovechkin’s voice booms in the cavernous space.

And – of course. Never mind that technically, the significant other is supposed to stay with the winning team until they decide they’re done with them. It surprises him exactly not at all that Ovechkin’s fairly flagrantly disregarded that portion of the tradition of the sacrifice. It’s difficult to find it within himself to be angry through, even as fastidious as he is about traditions and routines.

Ovechkin must be nervous, for all he isn’t showing it, that Nicky’s here for the sacrifice and outed them and their marriage to the Penguins.

“Alex.” Backstrom says, rising to his feet gracefully; seemingly uncaring about the state he’s in and that he’s quite literally marked with the lines of the Penguins imprinted on his skin. But Ovechkin’s eyes darken when they look at his husband, disapproval and something that looks like anguish written for the briefest flicker in blue eyes before it drops away into unfettered joy as Nicky steps within reach of his arms.

The look on Nicky’s face is impossibly fond as he tilts his face up to look at his husband, and Sid thinks it’s the softest he’s ever seen Alexander Ovechkin look as he brushes a kiss across the Swede’s lips. He says something in Russian and Nicky shakes his head; taps two fingers against his husband and captain’s chest over where the C would be if they were still in uniform.

Ovechkin closes a hand around the slim bones of his husband’s wrist, and tugs to draw him closer against him; and Nicky goes easily even as he says something in Russian again that even as Sidney doesn’t understand the words, the meaning is clear enough as an affectionately exasperated chirp.

Judging by the amused snicker from Geno, he’s right about that.

The touch of Ovechkin’s hands heavy, possessive; every shred of the substantial amount of contact making it copiously clear that he is the only one allowed to touch Nicky this way. Sid doesn’t miss the way Ovechkin’s gaze slips over his husband’s shoulder towards the Penguins; and the smile he gives them all is just a little too sharp and pointed to be anything but purely predatory. 

Wordlessly, Sid hands Backstrom a towel.

Nicky gives him a grateful look before he cleans himself as effectively and efficiently as can be done in the current moment, tosses the balled up towel into the equipment bag by the door. It only takes him a moment to put his game day suit back on, rumpled despite the folding, and Ovechkin spends the time watching the rest of the Penguins who haven’t already begun to slip away.

“Alex.” Nicky says softly, and just like that all of the Russian’s attention is on the other man. With a wordless toss of his head Nicky ushers him out of the room unceremoniously and the door shuts behind them.

It’s a lot to think about. To reconsider about the world and about hockey players. Sid doesn’t know how to feel about it, because he’s never _let_ himself feel about it. And - things he's never let himself _want_. He doesn't turn his head to look, even though he wants to; but he feels the weight of Geno's gaze all the same.


End file.
